


one day in May

by DoeEyedButterFly



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Other, Sad, joyce pov, not a feelgood fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 12:20:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21374059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoeEyedButterFly/pseuds/DoeEyedButterFly
Summary: Joyce Madsen, formerly known as Joyce Price, opens up about her thoughts and feelings, considering events in her daughter's life, after asking her to go to a book fair together.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	one day in May

Of course, she snapped at me, when I asked her to go to the book fair with me, something about she already told me, she didn't want to go, when in reality, she had just grunted and than slammed the door into my face, when I first mentioned it.

That door has been closed shut for months now. Sometimes I hear her pacing around or scratching the floor, I don't quite understand what she is doing there, but I guess, it's either a form of relief or a sign of rebellion. I don't want to ask, she will just get mad and throw things, which results in all of us getting mad, yelling at each other. I don't need that and I don't want that. As long, as my daughter isn't scratching _herself_ with sharp objects or do similar things, that could have worse outcomes, I am willing to overlook certain things.  
  
Things like eating in her room or on her bed, all by herself or getting up whenever she pleases or jumping out of her bedroom window, instead of using our entrance door.  
My husband tells me, not to let her have her way, he advises me, to be more strict, complains, I'm too soft and indulgent with her.  
The way I see it though, she is a young adult, with her own mind, yes, she is living under my roof, that is also her roof, the only home, she has ever known, but would it help the situation, if I raised my voice or put bars in front of her window or lock her up, to make sure, she doesn't get in trouble?   
  
Really, I always thank God, when she _does_ in fact eat something, that is not always the case, especially lately, although I was initially blessed with a kid with huge appetite. Why would it matter to me, where she devours her food? And of course he is right, when he is constantly criticizing me, for not getting as involved when it comes to her social life or whatever is left of that and her friends, although it is debatable, if she really has any. I sadly doubt that, so does my Boo.  
As of today, I just don't question anymore, who Chloe is spending her time with, I pretend not to notice, her stealing my condoms, I don't lecture her on the smoking or using drugs around the house. Do not mistake me, I do not tolerate it, but I think, life has punished her hard enough and her step-father is by far the strictest, most diciplined man I've ever met. Something I thought, and honestly still think, is what every family in transition needs, it sort of secures you, it kind of guarantees you stability and isn't that, what we were craving at one point? At least I did, do.

I want my house in order. I want my life back.  
I can't have my life back- but I can have my house, as well as my life, in order.  
I can move on and build a new life. It's what I have been doing for the past years, but somewhere along the way, I lost my daughter.  
Maybe, while I was so focused on building, I actually built around her, instead of with her and sometimes it even feels like I buried her.  
How much I wish, I could take all the pain away from her, take it all on me, how could I, how can I?  
Listening to her cries at night, that is, _if_ she decides to come home, breaks my mother-heart into tiny pieces. Seeing her, wasting her talents and giving up on herself, breaks me and I catch myself thinking, that sometimes, I am giving up on her as well.  
Am I all she has left? What a sad, depressing thought.   
  
I am ashamed of too many things, I wonder, if she ever tries, walking in my shoes. As a child, she loved to imitate me, now, I think she hates me, at lease sometimes. That hurts.  
It doesn't hurt as much though, as knowing, she thinks, I hate her, at least sometimes. I love my daughter, I always have and nothing and no one can ever change that.  
  
Punishing her, diciplining her, was always my job, maybe that's why I am hiding behind a former military member. I want order. I want security.  
Mostly, I don't want to be the bad guy anymore.  
After all, <strike>we</strike>, _she, _has been punished enough.

All I can do, is share my hopes, thoughts and feelings and sometimes, she is even interested a bit. When I tell her about my fears, she shuts down.  
I understand why, I do. They are not what she wants to hear or see and so she storms off or gets mad.  
I hope, my husband is wrong about **her**.  
I hope, I am wrong about **her**.  
I hope, my daughter is right about **her**.  
Sadly, I doubt it.

Last Mother's Day we had one of those moments, they don't really happen any more.  
I was setting the table, when I saw Chloe through the glass door to the backyard. She was smoking, staring at a point somewhere in the distance.  
She looked terrible, worse, than the day her father died and her best friend in the world moved combined. Maybe, because she was feeling all of those losses, combined.  
I stopped what I was doing, went outside and sat with her, quietly.  
She said nothing, just rested her head on my shoulder.  
I don't know, if she had actually forgotten, that it was _my_ day or if she shared with me, what was on her mind, but really on her heart, _because_ it was my day.  
  
I just can't forget, how she looked at me and told me, that the thought alone, that **she** ran away, left, left her, after they agreed to leave together, after they told their parents, their friends and teachers, where they'd go, that was what made her physically sick, but what was really _killing_ her, was if **she** didn't run away, if **she** didn't leave, didn't leave her, if **she** wasn't with someone else right now, because that... that actually means, **she** is not okay.   
I wanted to reply, wanted to tell her, May had just begun, wanted to de-stress her, tell her to calm down, **she'd** show up, like **she** always did.  
I didn't. My daughter had shut down again, I felt it, before I saw it.  
I lost her.  
  
  
A sentence we suddenly both said a lot, something we had in common.  
I lost **her**.  
  
  
Back there, my eyes went to the flowers, tattooed on her arm, some of them were planted right in front of us.  
I remembered, how I one day in late May, came down the stairs from picking up dirty laundry, thinking, how I always was the one taking care of everything and then I saw **her **outside, picking flowers, swiping her shoes, before setting foot onto the carpet, when coming in, getting our most expensive vase from the kitchen cabinet and placing it right in the middle of the table, turning the vase, until all flowers were bathed in sunlight and then **she** bend over and blew into all the flower buds, until they opened, a perfect picture. I had never seen that before, what a sweet girl.  
In that moment I could really empathize with my daughter, missing something so beautiful.

I found a book at the fair, I bought it, had to.  
Chloe will read it, she will refuse to take it and I will put it on the fire place, where she will snatch it, maybe at night or when I'm at work. She will read it, maybe in less than a day. She will then put it back, like she never took it or maybe forget and I'll pretend to not have noticed it missing.

The book is not just about, but written by a girl, who was abducted when she was eleven years old. She was kidnapped and forced to live in her captor's home, for an entirety of eighteen years, before she finally set herself free and although she went through hell and back, she never stopped hoping, she never stopped believing there was a life out there for her and she would live it to the fullest, once she reconciled with the ones, she was forced to leave behind all this time ago.  
  
I don't know, if it is the right thing to do. It's just a book after all, but if I can ask my dauther Chloe for one thing, it may be to keep up her hope.

**Author's Note:**

> the book is "a stolen life" by Jacee Dugard


End file.
